God is Dead to Me
by Comidia Del Arte
Summary: The Saints thought themselves to be the only ones with plans to kill Yakavetta at his murder trial. What they didn't know was that one young woman was ready to revoke her life to ensure that Yakavetta would be punished for the wrongs committed against her family. Years later, a rash of murders are brought to Smecker, only the Saints are not responsible.
1. Sacrifice

The smoke tendrils curled like vines as my lips parted to exhale. The taste of the smoldering tobacco played lazily on my tongue as I went to take another drag. I'd have to go back in soon; Rosaline couldn't be in there alone. Not when _**he **_would be taking the stand. She wouldn't be able to control herself once he opened his mouth and the lies and bull spewed forth like a waterfall of putrid shit.

I hated him, hated him for what he did to my family. Hated him for what he did to me. Gasping, I brought my left hand up to wipe away the oncoming tears with the heel of my palm. Fuck him; let the devil fuck him sideways and in every way for what he did to us.

Taking one last drag from my cigarette, I tossed it into the corner of the alley. Watching as the burning tip disappeared into the shadows. Turning my eyes landed on a rusted dumpster. Making my way over I knelt down, flinching as I put some of weight on my right arm which darned a black cast. His men broke my humerus and practically all the fingers on my right hand. It had been longer than two months. I had to undergo surgery because the bone was sticking out or my arm.

Reaching my good arm behind the dumpster, my fingers brushed up against a plastic bag. Grabbing it, I pulled it out. Inside the bag was a wooden box. Before I went any further, I looked up and down the alley. No one to see so far it was only me. Looking to the box, I opened it to reveal a 2.5 inch barreled- .357 magnum. Wasn't much, but it would do the job. I'd be sitting at the front, couldn't miss.

I loaded the gun. Once I had completed the task, I kicked the box under the dumpster and hid the gun in the folds of my jacket. Jerry, the Court security guard wouldn't bother to check me. For the past couple of days I had been leaving in the middle of the trial for a smoke, the first few times he had checked me. But now it all seemed repetitive. Slowly, I got to my feet and made for the door, which I had propped open.

In my head, a little voice was telling me to stay outside to not go back in that room. God as my witness, I had no desire to commit murder. But in my gut, I knew that if I didn't he would walk. He would come for us; there wasn't a single doubt in my mind. Rosaline didn't deserve that, she hadn't deserved any of this. Though she was older than me, we both knew that I was the stronger one. Losing me would hurt her, but that sick fat greasy bastard touching her again, would kill her.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. Another minute; just another minute to compose myself before go back among the lions. The cool brick of the building holds me as I press my forehead against. It'll all be over soon, the devil take me before I let that sick fuck walk.

Looking toward my watch my eyes widened, he would have already taken the stands. Throwing the door open, I went in. Jerry nodded to me as I passed, didn't even attempt to call me back for pleasantries. Making it to the double doors, I slipped inside. All the while, reciting a prayer to God even though I no longer believed in his existence.

Yakavetta had already taken his place, and was giving his account. Denying everything, and thinking he would get away with it. That fuck had another thing coming. His eyes flashed to meet mine as I took my place next to Rosaline.

When a stranger would look at my sister and I. The last thing they would expect was that we were related. I had taken after my father in looks and my mother in temperament. Linn was the exact opposite. Her curly long red hair and clear ocean blue eyes rivaled my straight black hair and murky swamp green eyes. While she was quiet and polite, I was loud and slightly obnoxious. Yet, despite our differences, we thick as thieves my sister and I. At least, we used to be. There was a time when we told each other everything. But after Linn was raped by Yakavetta, she kept to herself and we were only close physically; clutching one another for support in these terrible times.

Yakavetta had wronged us in three ways. But the public only knew of the two. Rosaline refused to tell anyone else and it would seem that Yakavetta didn't have anything against her decision. So far, the evidence pointed to a few of his men who committed the murder of my father and the beating of yours truly. Of course, he wasn't on trial for the murder of one man, so far he was here for the murder of at least 17, my father among them.


	2. Reborn

The lies continued to fall from his lips, and as the minutes ticked by. I grew more and more restless. My left hand moved to the fold of my jacket, clutching around the magnum. The wooden handle smooth in my grasp. For moment, I began to feel the urge to chicken out growing more in power. But one look at Linn quashed any sense of backing out. The more he spoke, the more her eyes watered and the more her lip quivered. "We were at the Genovese, the butcher, because on Thursday she makes agnolcotti for..."

They were laughing, actually laughing! Knowing what he was being accused of, what he did! How could they laugh? How could his mother look at him and encourage him? Thankfully, the judge rebuked him, and requested order. From the left of the room, I could hear two reporters chattering to one another. "He'll walk, even with all this evidence."

"Look, all Yakavetta's people on the left. All the families of the men he has killed on the right. Everyone wants some justice."

At this observation, I turned to look. He was right; it was as if a barrier separated the opposing groups. Only one was going to win, and the other deserved justice. "Look at him. Doesn't have a care in the world….. He's gonna walk."

The hell he was. Gritting my teeth, I slowly pulled the gun from my jacket and started to rise from the bench. Suddenly, the doors burst open and all was chaos. "You! To the back!"

People screamed, and I turned. 3 men had stormed into the room. All of them armed. One of them vaulted the barrier and started waving his gun, forcing the reporters to duck and abandon their cameras.

Rosaline grabbed for my arm, knocking the gun from my hands.

The eldest of the group ordered. "Shut the fucking cameras off!

It clattered to the floor and was kicked away amidst the confusion.

The elder made his demands; the dark haired man grabbed Yakavetta and dragged him to the front of the court. The third one aimed his gun at the guards, and they threw their weapons down to him.

My grip tightened as I held my sister's hand. She let out a strangled cry as the judge was grabbed by one of the men and dragged away from the platform all the while insisting on an explanation. He was pushed to the back of the room, where he remained on the floor.

I don't know why Linn and I didn't take cover, though Linn bowed her head. Tears dropping into her lap, her grip on my hand firm. I could only look on, my heart in my throat as two of the men aimed their guns at the back of Yakavetta's head.

My attention turned to the old man, as he surveyed the room, taking in every face. Almost as if to memorize every wrinkle and every detail that made them. When he spoke, his voice was thunderous and demanded respect. With every word he paced, as if he owned a stage, and had every right to be there. "You people, have been chosen, to reveal our existence to the world!"

I couldn't look away, even though I sincerely wanted to, I followed the old man's progress. "You will witness what has happened here today, and you will tell of it later!"

He paused and looked to the reporters; some had their hands up, while a spare few were jotting down his words. "All eyes to the front."

"Now's a good time..!"

Hearing Yakavetta, my attention jumped to him. "Shut yer fuckin mouth!"

The dark hair man kicked him in the small of the back and pulled him to his knees by the collar of his pressed shirt. Upon seeing this, a small smile made my lips twitch, as a single thought danced through my mind 'Justice.'

Feeling Linn's grip practically breaking my fingers, I looked to her. Only to find the old man making his way over to us, his eyes no longer hard but kind. His tattooed and gnarled hands reached for my sister. He placed his hand under her chin, and encouraged her to look at him. When next he spoke, his voice was gentle and almost father like. When she met his eyes, he smiled and turned to look at me. His removed his hand from her, and cupped my cheek. "Ye must watch dears; it'll all be over soon."

I could feel my heart going a mile a minute out of fear and twisted excitement. Tears found their way into my eyes and moved at a snail's pace down my cheek. Wetting the old man's hand, he gave a look wrought with compassion as if he knew; his thumb wiped away the tears. The fire alarms went off, and he retracted his hand, moving to the front and taking position behind Yakavetta.

The two younger men stepped up onto the desks that normally harbored the opposing sides. Both extracted a pair of pistols and held them aloft. Spurring a new wave of terror as everyone took cover, everyone except Rosaline and I. Doing as we were told by the old man.

My eyes moved to take in the two younger men. The one closest to us had the dark hair and blue eyes. I couldn't look anywhere else but at them as they spoke what almost seemed like a well rehearsed speech. I think it was the first time that I took into account their accents. They sounded homey on the ear, because my mother spoke in the same way before she died. "Now you will receive us!"

I was going to listen, and remember everything that was going to happen, and everything they were going to say. The dark haired one followed his comrade's words. "We do not ask for yer poor, or yer hungry!"

Each spoke with much passion, their rage and power coming out with every word they spoke. "We do not want yer tired and sick!"

I felt like some sort of devoted follower, taking in each and every thing they said. "It is yer corrupt we claim!"

Rosaline quacked, not a whimper passing her lips. In that moment, she looked like a virginal figure, unblemished and innocent. Seeing her like this, frightened and made me feel unworthy and dirty. "With every breath, we shall hunt them down!"

At that declaration, I looked up, and found myself face to face with the man on the desk. "Each day we will spill their blood, till it rains down from the skies!"

He looked away, only then did I realize that I was holding my breath the moment we looked at one another. "Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal!

Both Rosaline and I looked at Yakavetta, he stared at us. His eyes full of hatred and evil, Linn looked away but I glared at him. I wanted him dead; I wanted to be the one to kill him. Minutes ago I would have given anything to shirk my duty, but now I wanted that gun in my hand and I wanted so badly to pull the trigger and watch the light of life leave his body. "These are principles of which every man of every faith can embrace!"

It was as if they were growing louder and louder, their voices resounding in my head. "These are not polite suggestions. These are codes of behavior. And those of you that ignore them will pay the dearest cost."

"There are varying degrees of evil. We urge you lesser forms of filth...not to push the bounds and cross over...into true corruption, into our domain."

"But if you do...one day you will look behind you and you will see we three, and on that day you will reap it!"

His voice quieted, but it was still loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. "And we will send you to whatever ever god, you wish."

The two dismounted the desks and joined the old man, pointing their guns into the back of Yakavetta's head. Despite the Italian's complaints and uttering for mercy and God, I could still hear them. They were praying, and I knew upon hearing it I would never ever forget it. "And shepherds we shall be, for Thee my Lord for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand. That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be."

There was a pause. The old man spoke in a voice that could have been mistaken for whisper. I strained to hear the him. "In nomine Patris."

Then the light haired man "Et Filii Et."

Finally the dark haired. "Spiritus Sancti."

The gunshots echoed through the room, my eyes never left as Yakavetta fell forward. His eyes shot out by the bullets, his face nothing more that raw piece of singed meat. People screamed, and Rosaline sobbed. All I could do was stare at the body of the man that had tormented my family for so long. He was nothing now, it was over, and I wasn't the one to kill him. And I found myself wanting.

Linn rose from the bench and ran, her fingers digging into my arm, yet I still couldn't look away. My feet caught on something, and I was down. I heard my sister cry my name, but the mob of people hid me. Someone stepped on my casted arm, causing me to yelp in pain. I was reduced to rolling out of the way of high heeled feet and well polished shoes. A hand mucked through the throng of people and I was pulled up from the ground.

I found myself looking into a pair of blue eyes. For a second I had no idea who he was, until I took in the rest of his face. The mole just above the lips which hinted a smile, the Virgin Mary inked into his neck, the dark hair. Good God, it was him. It was as if every single word in my vocabulary had up and packed. I was speechless; I had no idea what I was supposed to say to him. Before I could continue thinking about this, he was gone along with the other two.

The room was empty all except for me. Seeing my gun on the floor, I snatched it up and ran outside. Only to be ambushed by reporters. I was reunited with my sister. Though she cried, I could just catch the smile in her eyes.

We managed to shunt the reporters, and made it to my car. I had no intention of telling Linn what had happened when we were separated back there. I didn't want her know, because I didn't want her to be scared for me. I wasn't even scared for myself, in fact, I was actually angry with myself and those men. In my heart, I knew it should have been me to kill Yakavetta. Then again, that sick fuck wasn't the only one that wronged my family. His men were still out there, walking free despite the wrong they had done. And there were others like them, men who beat women and raped them mercilessly. As I drove, I was forming plans in the silence between my sister and I. This wasn't over for me, in fact, it had only just begun.


	3. Rapist

The night was cold, bracing, and refreshing. It cut the faces of the drunken patrons of a few local bars on the borders of south Boston. A lone bargoer was making his way home, after a long night of drinking, laughing, and few other pleasures that fulfilled the animalistic carnal desires that so enjoyed rearing up when the booze became too strong. Caleb Reid smiled at the thoughts and memoires, of the screams and begging that came out of the bitches he played with.

As he neared his apartment, he noticed a lithe figure leaning on the side of the building. Shoulder length curtains of red hair, playing idle on her flushed cheeks. Her left leg was pulled back as it bent under her form to hold her balance against the wall. This pose left her smooth creamy legs out for inspection. When Caleb was about to pass her, a sweet smile danced across her rose colored lips. Her hand snaked out and snared the man's arm like a graceful vine. "Lookin for a good time darlin?"

Her accent was that of a sweet southern belle. Something that Caleb loved in his women. Turning he towered over her. "Perhaps."

His eyes traveled up and down glancing over every inch of this lady of the night. Finally resting on what looked like a duffle bag which sat off to the side. "Whatcha got there?"

The smile never left, the belle leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "Toys."

With a groan, he found himself unable to resist. "How much?"

Pulling back, the girl took him in. "This ones on the house sweetheart."

Caleb could just see her now, those pretty green eyes streaming with tears, lips torn open by screams. Her limbs constricted making her fight and struggle while she'd beg for mercy. It was simply too easy. With a charming smile, he extended his arm, offering it to the belle. Grabbing the duffle bag, she fit herself next to him, whispering in his ear, playing with him and screwing his self control to the point where he was ready to toss her in the alley and take her there.

At long last they reached Caleb's apartment and he ushered the woman inside. Closing the door behind him, he locked it and led her to the living room. Offering her a seat, he excused himself. He had to make the preparations and grab some of his 'tools.'

This was just brilliant, just perfect. Caleb always had a taste for the rougher side of sex, but with every encounter he grew more and more violent. He had never been reported because he managed to keep his desires at bay, but with hookers, he could really cut lose. He could destroy them, beat them to shit and no one would be any the wiser. They were the scum of the earth; no one gave a shit if some stupid hoe bag was hurt on the job. It came with the territory of walking the streets. This one would be no different.

Smirking, Caleb grabbed his hunting knife from the bedside table. Making his way back to the dual living room and kitchen, he found that the woman was gone. Looking around, he saw no trace of her, except for the duffle bag. This lay unzipped on the floor, perhaps she had gone to the bathroom to 'freshen up?' She couldn't know his intentions for her now! That would be impossible. Then he noticed something that looked like hair flowing from the opening of the bag. Bending down he picked it up. It was a wig; the color and style very much like the woman's. Shit, did he pick up so fucking cross dresser. Dropping the wig, he looked around; she wouldn't just leave her bag would she? Then, something cold pressed into the back of his temple. "Fuck…"

"Drop the knife." The voice lacked the southern accent; it was no longer innocent and teasing, only cold and dead. Despite that, Caleb knew he had just screwed himself to the wall; she was going to kill him. His body shook with terror, and all predator thoughts flew his mind. Leaving behind a pathetic weakling reduced to begging and tears. "Move, now"

Hands firmly planted to the back of his head, Caleb followed the orders and allowed himself to be pushed at gun point to the middle of the living room. The coffee table stood waiting for him. "Lay on your back."

He did so, not daring to chance a glance at his assailant. The only sound made was the squeak of the table as it took his weight, and Caleb's incessant sniveling. This crying seemed to have cracked some of the woman's patience. A sudden pain bloomed through Caleb's head as she brought the butt of her pistol down on his head. "Shut the hell up! You have no right to cry!"

He quieted, and then to his astonishment, the woman laughed. "How does it feel, to be at the receiving end?"

"W-w-what?"

She grabbed his face, and her nails dug into his flesh, despite the fact that she wore black surgical gloves. "How does it feel to be like to be so weak, so pathetic?"

All he could see were her eyes, a shade of vicious jade that cut through him like shards of glass. There was laughter in them, a cruel joy at the sight his terror and weakness. Letting his face go, she patted his left cheek. "Don't move I have to grab something."

Making her way over to the knife that Caleb had dropped, she picked it up. Weighing it in her hands she nodded and went and stood in front of the table "This what you use on them."

"I-I- I don't know what you're talking about."

The woman stopped playing with the knife. Something snapped in her, and what little Caleb saw of her face seemed to roar with fury. Pulling out her gun, she ordered him to pull down his pants and lay on his stomach. He did so, and the next thing he knew, she was tying his arms and legs to the table.

What came next was the worst of her tortures. He felt something against his asshole, and before he could comprehend what was about to happen, it happened. She was raping him, shoving a dildo in his ass, making him scream and beg mercy. She said nothing, didn't even laugh, and remained completely silent. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he felt as if she was going to rip him apart. He didn't know how long it went on for. It felt like years before she relented and when she did, Caleb was nothing but a ghost of what he had been, a mere wisp of the monster that had been planning the rape of the one torturing him now.

Walking around the table, the woman knelt down. He couldn't look at her, didn't want to too. Extracting Caleb's knife, the woman flicked the across his upper arms. Very similar to the cuts he made on the arms of the whores on the street "A-are-are you a Saint?"

He had to know. "God is dead to me."

Not even a single shred of emotion, she was insane, completely out of touch. Feeling the tightness of his bonds relaxing when his captor cut them away, Caleb tried to move. Only to be kicked off the table, and then kicked hard in the stomach. He coughed, and blood began to coat his lips like a rusted lipstick. "Now hold still, I don't want to mess up."

His eyes bulged from his sockets when he saw the tip of the knife touch his chest. Then it dug in, carving words into his flesh. Caleb screamed his voice bloodcurdling and unbearable even to the one who caused his suffering. By the time she had finished her work, the victim was pale and practically bloodless. Stepping back, she took in her work. Looking to his chest, Reid choked on his screams. Even though the carving was bloodied and difficult to read, he could make out the single word "Rapist."

Completely horrified at what she had done, Reid looked up only to look into the unblinking stare of a pistol. The woman's finger slowly pulled back the trigger, and the gun went off. Caleb Reid was dead.

**Author's Notes:**

**As you can see a lot of happens here, is the product of me taking a leaf out of Lisbeth Salander's book. For the record, she is a favorite movie and book character of mine, and to see a crossover of Boondock Saints and Girl with the Dragon Tattoo would be just amazing. Anyway, that aside, just putting this note here so that I don't run into any Salander fans who would kill me for taking this torture thing from the book and movie. **


	4. Nora

"Meg, Meg….Megan!"

A head of tousled blonde hair shot up from the surface of the desk. The woman opened her sleep encrusted eyes, only to find a small child standing before her, darning an old nightgown and totting a ratty looking teddy bear around by its foot. "Meg, I need a glass of water."

Smiling, the woman stepped out from behind the desk. Taking the little girl by the hand and leading her to the kitchen for some water. The pair passed by a sign which hung opposite the entrance to the building, it read "The Boston Battered Women and Children's Shelter."

Megan had been volunteering at the shelter for several months, she did have a paying job at a local café, minimum wage with the meager tips, pathetic but it was enough to get by. Sometimes she'd make off with money from her victims, but only to pay for tools and weapons. Though she had the qualifications to work at any of the hospitals in the city, Megan wasn't going to risk exposing herself.

For now, her nurse's training was put to use in the shelters. It was the perfect set up; she'd get close to the victims, find her targets and make a house call. She kept her net spread, only killing a few every month. However, when she first started out, a month was taken up by a single project; she liked to make them suffer. That is, until one of her targets got smart and waited for her with a knife in hand. He didn't last long, but just enough to toss in a few slashes and punches. It took a fall from his window into the alley outside his apartment to kill the bastard.

Glancing down at the girl, her eyes softened. Taking in the healing scars and the fading bruises, little Nora had come to the shelter with her older brother and baby sister. All three showed varying signs of physical abuse, but Nora, there was something that didn't sit right. The girl ducked away from the male volunteers, refused to take from food from them, anything having to do with men made her nervous. Megan had been casing their home for the last couple of weeks, watching their father like a hawk, waiting for the right time to strike and thinking up the best way for him to die. The man was a sick fuck; she'd seen him watching little girls in the park that look in his eyes. Megan shuddered at the thought as she filled Nora's cup with tap water.

Nora looked up at her, her hazel eyes so innocent, but shaded in a way that exposed the pain in her past, the things she should have never been put through. Handing over the glass, she smiled as Nora gulped the water greedily, to the point where the water sloshed down her front. Chuckling, Megan pulled the cup away. "Hey, hey, slow down love. What's the rush hm?"

The little girl looked up at her, afraid at first, expecting a scolding, but in seeing the adult smile she giggled. Handing the glass back to her, Megan cautioned her. "Slowly, alright, can't have ya choking can we?"

Nodding, Nora sipped the water delicately, falling into a fit of giggles when Megan tapped her pinky. "Aw, remember, to be fancy, gotta keep that pinky up right."

After finishing her water, Nora held the glass up to Megan, how placed it in the sink. Turning, she placed a careful hand at the small of the girl's back, and returned her to her bed. Taking a seat at the edge, she waited until the kid sleeping peacefully. Pulling the blanket up to Nora's chin, Megan leaned back, watching her sleep. Even in that state, she saw torment, the kid had nightmares. Anyone who suffered at the hands of those they could trust would always have nightmares.

Brushing her hair through her unnatural blonde hair, Megan went back to the entrance desk. Grabbing a chair, she threw herself down, watching as the sun rose over the buildings of the city. Shauna would be in for her shift in a couple hours, and then she would be putting in hours at the café. Tonight, she'd pay a final visit to Nora's father, the final casing on the man before she'd beat him bloody. She took solace in the thought.

* * *

_**Author's Note: So, as you can see, I rewrote this chapter. I found that it wasn't really believable that Arianna would be able to work as a nurse without any schooling that doesn't expose her. So, I felt her working at a cafe and volunteering a battered shelters a bit more plausable. It wouldn't be hard to drum up papers for a minimum wage job and some volunteer positions. So, I hope you all prefer this over the old chapter.  
**_


	5. Battered

"Her name is Arianna Cheever, age 25, both her parents are dead. Mother died of breast cancer 8 years ago, and her father was murdered. Only family left is her older sister, Rosaline. This is her picture here. Now, we know where she is, about 5 months after the trial and your little 'coming out' party, she left the states and moved to Britain, got married year and a half ago. Her husband is a professor at some university, they have a kid together."

A hand brushed through copper blonde hair. Glancing up, its owner took in the two other men in the room. Both Irish and they were listening intently. He continued. "The suspect was going to nursing school here in the city before the Italian fucks messed with her family. After the trial, she moved to California changed her name to Natalie Borrego, stayed there for a good 3 years. Transferred her credits to another nursing school, got a part-time job working at a place called the Battered Service and Action Center."

There was a pause, and then a small stack of photographs slid across the table. "When the murders of these 3 men came to my desk, I checked back with her. 5 months before, she'd dropped off the grid, her apartment was abandoned. Found the remaining bits of her car in a chop shop. She maxed out her credit cards and closed out her bank account. Nothing could be found on her in the schools, about a week before I called their computer systems had been hacked; tons of student files were lost, including hers. When I dropped by the Center, they said hers and several other employee records had been stolen."

Pushing off from the filing cabinet, the darker haired of the pair approached the desk. Taking the pictures in hand, he studied them. "Know these fucks, saw em with Yakavetta a couple times; they were at his trial too."

The blonde joined his fellow and eyed the pictures. "Ya really think it's her, looks harmless."

Nodding, Smecker picked up the last photo in the draw. "Last I spoke with her, she said something about the Saints, said you were doing right by the people, she wanted in. I didn't think anything of it, but now, it fits. There were a few murder cases that I was covering in L.A, small time criminals, killed, execution style. There was something off about her the day we spoke, I just, I didn't want to think it was her. She's a good kid."

Murphy shrugged. "A lot of people agree with what we're doin, say they want in, doesn't mean they're gonna do it."

Nodding, Smecker went on. "Yes, but where she has positioned herself explains how she knows so much about the people she's killed. All of the criminals that are targeted have harmed others, injured people have to go somewhere to recoup. Very precise, she gets a rapist, she rapes em. Get's an abuser, she beats them to shit."

Conner eyebrows jumped. "She gets ta know the victims before she goes huntin?"

Tapping his nose, the agent smirked. "Bingo."

Conner grabbed the picture of Cheever. "So all we're looking for is a homicidal nurse?"

At this, Smecker shook his head. "Not as simple as it sounds. There are at least 22 hospitals in the Boston area. We don't know where she works from."

Handing the picture off to his brother, Conner confirmed another problem. "For all we know, she's probably gone and changed her whole appearance."

"Could be working through a battered women and kids' center, plenty of those in the area."

There was pause; Murphy didn't speak for the longest time. "Murph? What's up?"

Eyes still on the picture, Conner's twin spoke up. "I know her."

Looking over Murphy's shoulder, he found himself staring at a picture at a young woman who was lying, unconscious in a hospital bed. Her face was black and blue; her arms seemed to have achieved the brunt of the punishment, almost as if she had lifted them over her head when some object came crashing down, its aim being her skull. One arm appeared broken; it also looked like it had undergone some form of minor surgery. The opposite hand was heavily bandaged. Some of the fingers were braced as well, probably broken. This was Arianna Cheever, and this was what Yakavetta had done to her physically. "What?"

* * *

**Author's Note: I apologize, it has been a while since I've posted a chapter for this story. I have a good excuse though, I've been kept away because of a combination of a work and school. I did actually go to comic-con this year (well Wizard-Con it is Portland Oregon's version of comic-con, I'm counting it). Guess who I met... I met Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flanery, sweet guys. Their reputation precedes them, they were both very laid back... Though Reedus was hard to talk to, his smile sort of struck me dumb, I was expecting him to sign my picture, shake my hand and that would be it. I tried to let go, but he held on and smiled up at me, then he got up and poked my necklace (nothing special, just an ivory pendent with a simple carving in it, people normally ask me why I'm wearing a banana chip) he said he liked it and asked about it, I stumbled through and explanation, and one of my friends had a good laugh that my hands were shaking. After that, we hopped into Flanery's line. He was a bit easier to talk to (I blame Reedus's sunglasses), and I actually got to banter with him. Nothing amazing, he asked me if I spelled my name with an H, I sort of snapped at him (knee jerk reaction), he laughed, asked me if someone with an H had hurt me in some way,then asked what I would do if he put the H in, I just smiled and said "I'll cut ya." Then I asked a question that had been burning in my heart for months, which resulted in him singing the chorus of a song from the online musical "Devil's Carnival." All in all, it was a lovely trip.**

**So, enjoy this chapter, hope it was worth the wait. **


	6. Damned

Weekend, it was amazing how such a simple word to inspire so much joy in the hearts of millions. Though of course, it wasn't a generic weekend. Megan had her days off Wednesdays and Thursdays. Well, technically just Thursdays, Wednesdays she was on call for one of the shelters. This didn't bother her, it meant that places like the gym were lacking in visitors and she could have a few hours of peace via the satisfaction of sweat and the aching of her muscles.

As of now, she was beating the shit out of a punching bag. Imagining the face of her target, she'd done the final casing last night. She could see him now, screaming. Wouldn't take much to go through his home and find evidence for the cops. Made her smile as she landed a particularly hard punch into the leather of the bag, which swung toward her in retaliation, only to be kicked and hit into submission.

Moments like this made her wonder if she was slowly losing her grip on reality. To smile at murdering someone, that was a sign of insanity wasn't it? Stopping the bag, Megan sighed and left the matt, grabbing her towel from the floor to wipe away the sweat on her brow. These sick fucks were monsters themselves, she was doing the world a service of not giving them an easy exit because of the wrong they had done to those who had little means to fend them off.

Megan was doing what the Saints were doing, granted she was taking it a step further and leaving her own form of calling card. Still, she was doing the shit that they were praised for. If anything, she had more balls then those two jokers put together, at least she looked her victims in the fucking eyes, watched their sick little lives reduce to black. 'So how could I be a criminal and be damned to hell that being the….'

She stopped herself, 'God isn't real. Therefore, hell doesn't exist.' Making her way down to the locker room, Megan threw open locker and grabbed for her duffle. Lin would have hit her upside the head for such thoughts; she was the more religious of the two. Their mother had raised them Catholic (albeit a non-organized, do whatever you want Catholic, but a Catholic nonetheless), old habits were hard to break, she still couldn't gather the courage to toss her rosary, though she had the balls to break the chain. Lin was still practicing last they spoke, and so was her kid.

Stripping down to her skivvies, Megan caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrors that stood over an assembly of sinks just opposite her. Black and blues from her weekly endeavors were spread across her body, as if planted there by a lover's lips, though their appearance did not come about with gentle care. Turning, she looked at her back, finding tracks of scars. Despite the fact that she got them off of the garbage she took out every other week, they were nothing to be proud of. The scars were a product of foolishness and bad planning on her part.

Taking a moment, the woman inspected her right hand, finding some of its fingers crooked. When the nights were slow, she liked to take these moments to remind herself that she was only human. Taking the lives of people (disgusting excuses for breathing, people) can make a person feel elated and higher than the rest. Though she forced herself to say there was a no God, Megan didn't like it when those thoughts and feelings caught up with her. They made a person stupid, and slow to react, something she couldn't' afford. She could not just assume herself invisible, mentally perhaps, but physically she was just as fragile as any other.

Pulling on a tattered black tank-top, she allowed a pained groan to pass her lips when her muscles resisted. Jeans came next, just as torn as her shirt. After re-lacing her shoes, Megan shouldered her duffle and took to the stairs. After snatching her gym ID from the front desk, she left the establishment. Taking the stairs, she eyed the picture of herself on the laminated card. Christ, what a difference colored contacts and bleach could make. The name on the card, and on all her identification papers were courtesy of a friend in LA, she had to pay some serious cash for the bastard to hook her up with a convincing alias. From what she could tell, she had gotten her money's worth. Both the shelters and the café did a background check, not even a snag in Megan Thompson's history, had to admit that prick friend of hers delivered.

Reaching the level streets of the city, she lifted her head, scanned the skylines, taking in the tender bruised heavens. Gonna rain soon, she welcomed it; Megan loved the smell. It was peaceful, but it also had a way of muting the cries of city. Digging into her duffle, she pulled out a battered CD player. Jamming the headphones on her ears, she pressed play. 'Hate quiet.' The wail of a guitar roared in her ears as she walked. Ignoring the constant jump of the CD, she let her head bob up and down, as the beat of the drums lulled her. Quiet allowed thinking, and too much of that shit made for over thinking. To over think plain and simple murder was bad for business.

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_**Author's Note: I am trying to get back into writing this. Perhaps during my break from work and school, I'll be putting some good work into this fic. I have some ideas, but I am still thinking them over bit. Anyway, I hope you all like this new chapter, please review and tell me what you think. Enjoy! **_


	7. Mother

Smirking, Megan leaned against the crossing signal, waiting for the light to turn. Every once and a while she would look up and down the streets, searching for a break between cars. Though that came off as pointless, traffic seemed merciless right now. Not that she was in a hurry; she had another couple of hours till her shift at the café. Till then, she'd go home and revel in the quiet which could only come when her roommate was out. Granted, Katherine Tanner was a good roommate, hell she could be classified as a downright decent roommate. Still, her constant chatter was nerve wracking.

When they first met, Megan had attempted to keep Tanner at a distance; she wasn't in Boston to make friends. She was here to make a living and exact revenge. The earlier being the excuse she laid out when Katherine made several attempts to bond via shopping trips and trying to set Megan up on a blind date. Despite that, Kat insisted on being close with her roommate. Meg had little desire to make friends with anyone, she took Katherine's offer for a roommate from an ad in the newspaper, and she couldn't afford the expense of an apartment on her salary at the cafe. She refused to use any of the money taken from the bastards in that way, that stuff paid for weapons. The apartment was nice, clean, and Megan had a decent amount of privacy during the nights due to her roommate's shifts at one of the local bars. In the end, she finally gave into her roommate's desire for friendship, and it resulted in the pair having a rather odd relationship. They never went out shopping or anything of that nature due to their differing schedules, but they chatted more often than not.

Though, having someone like Katherine in her life wasn't all bad, hell, got her the membership at the gym for cheap. One evening, she begged Megan to drop by for a drink at her work. 5 minutes into the place she dropped a guy because he'd made a grab for her ass. Upon seeing this, Kat drove her to the gym the next morning after and introduced Megan to her boyfriend, John. The guy was a physical trainer. Her roommate felt that having all that pent up aggression, and taking it out on real people could not be considered healthy. Oh, if only she knew what Megan got up to at night.

The walk signal flashed, Megan stepped into the street along with a horde of pedestrians. Reaching the other side, she continued on her route home. Groaning at this single thought, she'd be passing the Catholic Church in a couple minutes. Course, it wasn't the church that Mom took her and Linn to on the religious holidays, nevertheless it was a reminder. At times she thought she saw her mother watching from the steps, shaking her head, seeing her as someone who'd strayed from the path of God. Strange, Grania Moore had not been deeply religious in life, but whenever Megan passed that church, Mom was wearing an egg shell blue dress, red hair pulled back, crystal green eyes filled with sorrow at the sight of her youngest daughter. She hated it, Megan always felt like her mother would be disappointed in the life that she'd chosen.

Some days, when she was in particularly bad spirits, Megan went so far as to not even look at the church. She'd simply walk by, left hand up, giving the middle fingered salute. Fuck religion, fuck God, fuck them all! That was her motto, if God was so great where was he when Yakavetta and his goons came into the house. Why didn't he smite the greasy bastard that shot her father through the head? Where the fuck was he when Yakavetta dragged Linn to the other room? Sure, maybe he sent the Saints to take care of that sick fuck, but why didn't he do it when the Cheever family needed them the most. Megan could handle God taking her mother away, she'd been sick, she was in pain… The murder of her father, along with everything else, that, that had been the final straw. God had his chance to help a straying lamb back onto the path righteousness, and he fucked up!

This in mind, Megan passed the church. A grimace on her face, the music practically screaming in her ears, without looking up. Her hand shot into the air, and offered up a glorious salute. This resulted in the staggered glares of church goers. Upon seeing such an act of blasphemy, "how rude she was", "how dare she" were the more polite things said about this angry looking woman. Just before she passed the church up completely, Megan's eyes darted to where she'd seen the image of her mother time and again. There she stood just a virginal and sorrowful as before. In that moment, Megan hissed only loud enough for herself to hear. "You're dead, you can't fucking judge me."

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_**Author's Note: Hello all! Sorry for the delay in posting again, it's finals week for the last term before summer. I hope you understand. Hell, I should be studying right now, I have two finals tomorrow morning. I am also hunting for a new job.  
**_

_**Anyway, I am a bit stuck. I've been wanting to get more and more in Megan/Arianna's head when it came to her life. Honestly, I am trying to figure out how she meets the Saints. I was thinking that they set up an ambush (the only way dear ol' Conner knows how) and try to take her down.  
**_

_**In that case, I would love to hear from my readers on this matter. Reveiw or PM to tell me some of your ideas! **_

_**Have a lovely evening all! **_

_**Also, for all you Oregonians, Norman Reedus and a few other cast members of the Walking Dead will be in Portland OR in January 2014 for Wizard-Con II. I'll be going again... Shut it, I wanna get my Lil Daryl plushie autographed! **_


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